Among the Missing

Among the Missing

by Dan Chaon

Paperback(Reprinted Edition)

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Product Details

ISBN-13: 9780345441614
Publisher: Random House Publishing Group
Publication date: 01/29/2002
Edition description: Reprinted Edition
Pages: 288
Sales rank: 572,331
Product dimensions: 5.50(w) x 8.20(h) x 0.60(d)

About the Author

Dan Chaon is the acclaimed author of Fitting Ends and Other Stories. He was anthologized in Best American Short Stories 1996 and The Pushcart Prize 2000. He has been published in such magazines as Story, Ploughshares, and Triquarterly, and has received many prizes and honors including a grant from the Ohio Arts Council. He lives in Ohio with his wife and children. He is currently at work on his first novel.

Read an Excerpt

Safety Man

Safety Man is all shriveled and puckered inside his zippered nylon carrying tote, and taking him out is always the hardest part. Sandi is disturbed by him for a moment, his shrunken face, and she averts her eyes as he crinkles and unfolds. She has a certain type of smile ready in case anyone should see her inserting the inflator pump into his backside; there is a flutter of protective embarrassment, and when a car goes past she hunches over Safety Man’s prone form, sheilding his not-yet-firm body from view. After a time, he begins to fill out—to look human.

Safety Man used to be a joke. When Sandi and her husband, Allen, had moved to Chicago, Sandi’s mother had sent the thing. Her mother was a woman of many exaggerated fears, and Sandi and Allen couldn’t help but laugh. They took turns reading aloud from Safety Man’s accompanying brochure: Safety Man—the perfect ladies’ companion for urban living! Designed as a visual deterrent, Safety Man is a life-size simulated male that appears one hundred eighty pounds and six feet tall, to give others the impression that you are protected while at home alone or driving in your car. Incredibly real-seeming, with positionable latex head and hands and air-brushed facial highlights, handsome Safety Man has been field-tested to keep danger at bay!

“Oh, I can’t believe she sent this,” Sandi had said. “She’s really slipping.”

Allen lifted it out of its box, holding it by the shoulders like a Christmas gift sweater. “Well,” he said. “He doesn’t have a penis, anyway. It appears that he’s just a torso.”

“Ugh!” she said, and Allen observed its wrinkled, bog man face dispassionately.

“Now, now,” Allen said. He was a tall, soft-spoken man, and was more amused by Sandi’s mother’s foibles than Sandi herself was. “You never know when he might come in handy,” and he looked at her sidelong, gently ironic. “Personally,” he said, “I feel safer already.”

And they’d laughed. Allen put his long arm around her shoulder and snickered silently, breathing against her neck while Safety Man slid to the floor like a paper doll.

Now that Allen is dead, it doesn’t seem so funny anymore. Now that she is a widow with two young daughters, Safety Man has begun to seem entirely necessary, and there are times when she is in such a hurry to get him out of his bag, to get him unfolded and blown up that her hands actually tremble. Something is happening to her.

There are fears she doesn’t talk about. There is an old lady she sees at the place where she often eats lunch. “O God, O God,” the lady will say, “O Jesus, sweet Jesus, my Lord and Savior, what have I done?” And Sandi watches as the old woman bows her head. The old woman is nicely dressed, about Sandi’s mother’s age, speaking calmly, good posture, her gloved hands clasped in front of her chef’s salad.

And there is a man who follows Sandi down the street and keeps screaming, “Kelly!” at her back. He thinks she is Kelly. “Baby,” he calls. “Do you have a heart? Kelly, I’m asking you a question! Do you have a heart?” And she doesn’t turn, she never gets a clear look at his face, though she can feel his body not far behind her.

Sandi is not as desperate as these people, but she can see how it is possible.

Since Allen died, she has been worrying about going insane. There is a history of it in her family. It happened to her uncle Sammy, a religious fanatic who’d ended his own life in the belief that Satan was planting small packets of dust in the hair behind his ears. Once, he’d told Sandi confidentially, he’d thrown a packet of dust on the floor of his living room, and suddenly the furniture began attacking him. It flew around the room, striking him glancing blows until he fled the house. “I guess I learned my lesson!” he told her. “I’ll never do that again!” A few weeks later, he put a shotgun in his mouth and pulled the trigger.

Sandi’s mother is not such an extreme case, but she, too, has become increasingly eccentric since the death of Sandi’s father. She has become a believer in various causes, and sends Sandi clippings, or calls on the phone to tell her about certain toxic chemicals in the air and water, about the apocalyptic disappearance of frogs from the hemisphere, about the overuse of anti- biotics creating a strain of super-resistant viruses, about the dangers of microwave ovens. She accosts people in waiting rooms and supermarkets, digging deep into her purse and bringing up photocopied pamphlets, which she will urge on strangers. “Read this if you don’t believe me!” And they will pretend to read it, careful and serious, because they are afraid of her and want her to leave them alone.

But she is functional. At sixty-eight, she still works as a nurse’s aide on the neurological ward of the hospital. She’ll regale Sandi with the most horrifying stories about her brain-damaged patients. Then she’ll say how much she loves her job.

Sandi, too, is functional. Besides Safety Man, there is nothing abnormal about her life. She works, like before, as a claims adjuster at the IRS. She used to have trouble getting up in the morning, but now she wakes before the alarm. She is showered and dressed before her daughters even begin to stir; she has their cereal in the bowls, ready to be doused with milk, their lunches packed, even little loving notes tucked in between bologna sandwiches and juice boxes. She stands at the door as they finish their breakfasts, sipping her coffee, her beige trench coat over her arm. At this very moment, hundreds of women in this exact coat are hurrying down Michigan Avenue. She is no different from them, despite the inflatable man in her tote bag.

The girls love Safety Man. Megan is ten and Molly is eight, and they have decided that Safety Man is handsome. They have been involved in dressing him: their father’s old black leather jacket and sunglasses, and a baseball cap, turned backward. They are pleased to be protected by a life-size simulated male guardian, and when she drops them off at school, they bid him farewell. “So long, Jules,” they call. They have decided that they would like to have a boyfriend named Jules.

Sandi works all day, picks up the girls, makes dinner, does a few loads of laundry. She doesn’t have hallucinations or strange thoughts. She doesn’t feel paranoid, exactly, though the odor of accidents, of sudden, inexplicable death is with her always. Most of the time, during the day, her fears seem ridiculous, and even somewhat clichéd. She knows she cannot predict the bad things that lie in wait for her, can never really know. She accepts this, most of the time. She tries not to think about her husband.

Still, when the girls are asleep and the house is quiet, Sandi feels certain that he will appear to her. He is here somewhere, she thinks. The most supernatural thing she can imagine is the idea that he has truly ceased to exist, that she will never see him again.

At night, she goes down to the kitchen, which is where he passed away. He had been standing at the counter, making coffee. No one else was awake, and when she found him he was sprawled on the tile, not breathing. She called 911, then pressed her mouth to his lips, thrust her palms against his chest, trying to remember high school CPR. But he had been dead for a while.

She finds herself standing there in the kitchen, waiting. She imagines that he will walk in, a translucent hologram of himself, like ghosts on TV—that loping, easygoing tall man’s walk he had, a sleepy smile on his face. But she would be satisfied even with something less than that—a blurry shape in the door frame like a smudge on a photo negative, or a bobbing light passing through the hall. Anything, anything. She can remember how badly she once wanted to believe in ghosts, how much she’d wanted, after her father died, to believe that he was watching over her—“hovering above us,” as her mother said.

But she never felt any sort of presence, then or now. There is nothing but Safety Man, sitting in the window facing the street, his positionable hands clutching a book, his positionable head bent toward it in thoughtful repose, a Milan Kundera novel that she’d found among Allen’s books, a passage he’d underlined: “Chance and chance alone has a message for us. Everything that occurs out of necessity, everything expected, repeats day in and day out, is mute. Only chance can speak to us. We read its messages much as gypsies read the images made by coffee grounds at the bottom of a cup.” Alone beside the standing lamp, Safety Man considers the passage as Sandi sleeps. Because he has no legs, his jeans hang flaccidly from his waist. He reads and reads, a lonely figure.

Most of the time, Sandi is okay. Everything feels anesthetized. The worst part is when her mother calls. Sandi’s mother still lives on the outskirts of Denver, in the small suburb where Sandi grew up; her voice on the phone is boxy and distant. Mostly, Sandi’s mother wants to talk about her job, her patients, whom Sandi has come to know like characters in a book—Brad, the comatose boy who’d been in a bicycle accident, and whose thick, beautiful hair her mother likes to comb; Adrienne, who had drug-induced brain damage, and who compulsively hides things in her bra; little old Mr. Hudgins, who suffers from confusion after a small stroke. Sometimes he feels certain that Sandi’s mother is his wife. But the cast of her mother’s stories is always changing, and Sandi has learned not to become too attached to any one of them. Once, when she asked after a patient that her mother had talked about frequently, her mother had sighed forgetfully. “Oh, didn’t I tell you?” she said. “He passed away a couple of weeks ago.”

Sometimes, Sandi’s mother likes to talk about death or other philosophical issues. One night after dinner, while Sandi is drinking tea at the kitchen table and the girls are watching music videos on television, Sandi’s mother calls to ask whether she believes in an afterlife.

Reading Group Guide

1. Among the Missing is full of stories about parents and children and siblings who have lost touch with one another, who rarely communicate, or who are completely estranged from one another. Do you sense love between these characters nonetheless, or regret?

2. In the story “Safety Man,” Sandi longs to see the ghost of her dead husband. Does the artificial man of the title fill that function in any way? What other characters in these stories could be read as ghosts?

3. In “Falling Backwards,” the central character argues with her father about the ambiguity of a film they’ve just watched. Are the ambiguous conclusions of “Here’s a Little Something to Remember Me By” and “Among the Missing” akin to the feeling one gets with a tabloid news story, one whose solution may never be known? In these stories, is wondering more satisfying than knowing?

4. In “Big Me,” the author takes the common fantasy of visiting one’s younger self to dispense advice and turns it on its head: The boy imagines he’s spying on his older self, to the bitter amusement of the disappointed man he’s watching. What function do the characters’ fantasies play in these stories?

5. Secrets withheld from loved ones play a large part in“Here’s a Little Something to Remember Me By” and in “Late for the Wedding.” In what ways do the withheld secrets affect the relationships involved? Would the secrets have been easier to reveal early on in those relationships,and would their revelation later cause more damage than relief ?

6. As a small boy, the narrator of “Burn with Me” clowns around with a boiled egg the day of his grandfather’s funeral in much the same way that Hollis in “Passengers, Remain Calm” keeps going on and on about the dog with the missing leg as they drive his stricken father to the hospital. Is this reaction a failure to notice misfortune, or ameans of coping with it?

7. In “Late for the Wedding,” Trent plans to ask Dorrie to marry him, despite the difference in their ages and her condescending attitude toward him and his background. Given that it seems likely she’ll say no, even before he slugs her son, what do you think makes him want to take such a step?

8. In “I Demand to Know Where You’re Taking Me,”Cheryl believes that her brother-in-law Wendell is guilty of the heinous sex crimes of which he’s been accused, whereas her husband and his family fervently believe in his innocence. What are the costs of her silence to her family and her marriage, and what does she get in return?

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Among the Missing 4.2 out of 5 based on 0 ratings. 9 reviews.
Guest More than 1 year ago
I picked this book up because I am a fan of short stories, and I saw that the author, Dan Chaon, had been a national book award finalist. I like short stories, but I like them to have a decent ending. None of the stories in this book did. They all had a good basis for the components of a short story, but then they all kind of fizzeled out in the end, leaving the reader (me) feeling like-What Just Happened Here? It left me feeling completely empty, like all the good parts that I read in the beginning were apart of some other story that got lost and was pieced together with whatever garbage ending he decided to close it with. In a nutshell, I thought it sucked.
Guest More than 1 year ago
This collection has several really intense stories - especailly Big Me. And while others aren't to that level they're still a good read. Definintally a book worth picking up but none of the tales are simple ones - a must for a thoughful reader.
PeRa1970 on LibraryThing 11 months ago
One of the few short story collections I've ever read, but what a pleasure. Chaon is a master at creating character in a short piece. The mood of most stories in the collection is bleak, although often with a tinge of dark humor. I enjoyed these more thoroughly than even the widely acknowledged king of the modern short story himself, Raymond Carver.
suesbooks on LibraryThing More than 1 year ago
Interesting, well-written collection of short stories, most from a male point of view. Most of the stories deal with something lost or missing, and easily kept my interest.
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